Bluegrass Music

It was sunny and 80 degrees when we arrived. We had been driving for more than an hour through some fairly hilly terrain, and we now descended into the valley and followed the gravel road right up to the country-style entrance. They had cameras; I had running clothes and an apple. As we entered the park, it was clear to us all that something was special was going on- no state park in North Dakota has to make extra parking space in a field on any given Saturday. As we counted the number of vehicles and saw everyone walking around, we quickly concluded that our hopes of seclusion and quiet were dashed. I asked the ranger what was going on, and he told us: a bluegrass festival.

Fortunately for us, Cross Ranch State Park is big. There are miles of trails and loops tucked far back away from the campground, nestled up tight against the mighty Missouri and presided over by towering cottonwood trees. As I ran through the mowed-grass paths and spooked up a few deer here and there, I couldn't help but fall entranced by the leaves fluttering far above my head. There was a breezy west wind blowing through the trees, and cottonwood trees make a distinct, calming sound in the wind. The rustling leaves sound like gently flowing water in the sky, overtaking the quiet passing of the nearby river. The farther the trail went north, the quieter it became. Eventually I saw no one else and heard no one else; the only sound was the rustling of the leaves. I was running through this cottonwood forest and I started reflecting on the beauty of it all.

I remembered back to the summer before when my Day Camp (Vacation Bible School) group stopped by the Lewis and Clark Interpretive Center and Fort Mandan near Washburn, ND. We learned from a worker there that the cottonwood-lined Missouri River was in a much different situation than in past history. The Missouri, like many rivers in the northern US, would regularly flood due to snowmelt and spring rains, and in this process would deposit sediment in the floodplain. This yearly renewal helped cottonwood trees (among other things, of course) thrive and maintain a strong presence in the stunning river valley. Natives used to camp and settle along the river, because the trees provided shelter, kindling, and material to build with, while also being right next to a water source.

In the 1950s things changed. It was decided that flooding out half of an Indian Reservation and literally putting entire towns under water was worth the risk in creating a large lake for recreation and flood control. This flood control, which has the added benefit of allowing the continuation of building $400,000 homes right next to a river that floods on a yearly basis, has had a negative effect on the cottonwood population along the river. It's incredibly sad to hear and see, but there are still some places hanging on to the beauty. Here at Cross Ranch State Park, the trees surround you and shelter you from all trouble. The problems of this world seem to disappear behind the trees, and the quiet instills a peace inside the heart. It's almost as if this is how it should be...

Man, the mosquitoes are bad today! I've finished my run and I'm stretching back at the parking lot now. I want to use a nearby picnic table to stretch, but it's over-run by unmowed grass, and it's literally teeming with ticks and mosquitoes. I'll pass. As it stands, I decide to stretch in the sun (take that you wimpy mosquitoes) and listen to the bluegrass music still going on. The last band played some fine old-time music, and in fact I had some goosebumps going during some of those songs. This next group is a group of elderly folks that either started playing their instruments in the past few years, or dusted the 40-year-old rust off of their own ones; either way there's a few more mistakes. No matter- it all sounds beautiful in such a place.

I'm reminded of earlier in the summer when we were having one of our worship services on the shores of this man-made Lake Sakakawea. We have a little worship band that is hooked up to smaller speakers, and the music pulses through the camp. Sometimes when the musicians all stop at the same time, the sounds can be heard reverberating off the surrounding hills and valleys. Birds chirp nearby, and rebellious fish jump out of the water, splash down, and create beautiful circles on the surface. It's almost as if there is one melody pulsing through the countryside, and for a moment the quiet prairie seems to be livened up a little.

I've yelled before. Sure, sometimes I'll be running on some gravel road somewhere, and on an impulse I'll yell at the top of my lungs, and usually the sound is devoured by the quiet, and it quickly disappears into nothing, while the wind tears it to pieces and destroys it. It usually makes me feel small, and sometimes I'm afraid to try singing or playing music altogether in the country, because the enveloping quiet can feel so deadening. But get a group together, and something beautiful can take away the silence. As I sit and listen to the bluegrass music flow through the trees, the crowd, and the North Dakota quiet, I can't help but smile at how today the silence was losing. One of my favorite metaphors for life is that darkness came first, and light comes in to drive it out. Today the music drove out the never-ending silence.

I now walk out to my car, parked on the snow-covered Grand Forks street. Cars blow past, and the birds have long since disappeared. The dead winter quiet has settled back in. As I sit in the driver's seat, I think back to that day. I feel the grass beneath my feet; I see the bright blue sky above; I hear the mosquito buzzing in my hear; I watch the pulsing bluegrass music light up the crowds; I feel the wind drifting through the valley; It again seems as if Creation has it's own music and pulse. But most of all, I hear the sound of the rustling cottonwood leaves, putting me to sleep like gently flowing water.

The bluegrass musicians are still playing.

I'm still listening.